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Exeter Chronicle,” replied another. “He’s on his way there now.”
    This brought to mind a bawdy drinking song on Exeter’s accomplished equestrians, and before the coach moved off, five lusty voices were braying the lewd rendition at the top of their lungs.
    Max winced as he turned in the direction of the High Street where the Black Swan was situated, and he delayed for a moment to take stock of his injuries. He ached all over, his nose throbbed, and his jaw felt as though it had been hit by a brick. The important question was, however-could he still perform? It was one thing to put his friends off, and quite another to put Deirdre off. She might fly into one of her famous rages if he were so boorish as to plead a headache or that he was feeling under the weather.
    Bloody hell! He hadn’t invited her to accompany him to Exeter, knowing she would only get in the way. But her doddering old husband, Sir William Honeyman, had gone off to his estate in Kent, and Deirdre had surprised him by turning up at the Black Swan. She’d known by the look on his face that he wasn’t pleased to see her, and when he’d gone off to meet his friends, there had been a ferocious argument. If he put her off now, there would be a scene, and he wasn’t in the mood for scenes.
    Put her off? He was beginning to sound like an octogenarian. Of course he wasn’t going to put her off. A man would have to have two feet in the grave if Deirdre couldn’t revive him. He would perform if he died in the attempt.
    At least he would die with a smile on his face.
    The Black Swan was in darkness except for the lantern hanging at the front porch. Max made his way through the arch that led to the courtyard. There were more lanterns lit here. He didn’t expect to meet anyone at two o’clock of the morning, nor did he. Reading was a country town, early to bed and early to rise. All the inns locked their doors shortlyafter sunset. But he’d taken that into consideration before he’d gone off with his friends.
    In one corner of the courtyard was a deformed old apple tree, and obscured by its leafy branches was the window of his chamber. He’d left the window open so that he could return without rousing the whole house. There was no need for a bachelor to be so discreet, but every need in Deirdre’s case. Though she and Sir William had an understanding, and went their separate ways, they kept up appearances. Not to do so could easily jeopardize Deirdre’s position in society. That was the way of their world. Appearances were far more important than reality, especially for a woman.
    There was a light at the window. So Deirdre had waited up for him after all. Sighing in resignation, he gritted his teeth and reached for the gnarled branch just above his head.
    T HE BOOK ON HER LAP FELL WITH A SOFT THUD to the carpeted floor, shocking her into wakefulness. Sara curled her hands around the armrests of her chair and made to rise. When she saw the book on the floor and realized that that was what had awakened her, sanity returned and she inhaled a slow, calming breath. There was nothing to fear here. She was in her bedchamber in the Black Swan, on the first stop of their journey to Bath, and she’d fallen asleep while reading Cecilia. No one knew where she was. No one.
    Reaching down with one hand, she picked up the leather bound volume and set it on the table beside her chair. She’d read Fanny Burney’s novel so often, she could just about recite it by heart. It had done the trick, though. It had cleared her mind of all her troubles and given her a few hours’ respite. But now that she was awake, she was wide awake, and wished that she’d read the cursed book in bed.
    Thunder sounded off in the distance. There would be a storm before morning. She stretched to ease her cramped muscles, then lifted the weight of her unbound hair from her neck in an effort to cool herself. In spite of the window she’d opened earlier, it was hot and airless in that small